Outclause
by Vcorrigan
Summary: Mixed emotions and peer pressure can sometimes push a person over the edge. Oneshot


**A/N: **What am I doing writing oneshots when I should be updating E86? Whoops, sorry, had an urge m'buds. And Hell, it's not slash. But it's short, so maybe I won't kill anyones butts. In the POV of the red-goth kid. Might do a few followups in different POVs, maybe not. Gimme your opinions.

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Routine, it's something people simply cannot live without. If there was no order, no one would be secure, and society would hardly be as advanced and comforting as it is. Separated, society lacks togetherness, but we still have a reformed government, and relative order to reign over us. There really is no question unknown, save for "where do we go when we die?" if not six feet under. Truthfully, I'm much happier without the Ultimate Question unanswered, because I fear death, and any sort of relative of it. It's one of the reasons I can't stand Kenny, the conformist, _disgusting_ bastard. He likes Death, it's some sort of quick high, pleasure to him, and we all know what he does when he's dead. Fucking necrophiliac.

But that isn't the point, the point is I can't admit my fear anywhere outside of my own head. I'm one of the nonconformist, a Goth, one of the few people in the school that supposedly relishes the thought of death and being free. I hate the stereotyping as much as the "normal" kids, but I can't just turn my backs on my friends, because despite how much their views make no sense outside of our little clique, they _are_ my friends and no one else would accept me, embrace me.

And that's why I have the scars on my wrist, and bloody scabs that haven't healed. My friends sometimes ask what provoked me when the cuts are really bad, and seep bloody through the sleeves of my shirt, and I'm always quick to the tongue and lie. They never question, satisfied with half-assed answers and continue their cancer-spree with the cigarette packs discarded by them. Only Henrietta suspects anything, but she doesn't really _care_. She's like me on some insane level, but she actually feels like she's making a difference drinking coffee and writing horrible poetry, while I don't.

Once I was alone at Denny's, near midnight, watching the sky. It was particularly pretty, a deep, royal blue, clear in the mountain air, stars glittering in space, flickering on and off. The coffee was stale, but the waitress didn't seem too pleased to have a customer and hardly looked ready to make a new batch, so I went with what was given to me without question. Half an hour into watching the sky lovingly, Henrietta strolled in, clunky boots creating her normal rhythmic walking pattern, alerting me to her presence before she slid into the booth, pale arms resting on the sticky tabletop. Sometimes I wondered how she could walk outside in a short skirt and midriff top without freezing, but she somehow accomplished it, and seemed proud and smug about her achievement.

I'd looked over to her, noticing the weary expression easily, as she usually seemed calm, cheerful, wispy, dreamlike. Her dark blue eyes flashed caution and reserve, the side of her pale cheek darkening as blood welled to the skin in a nice bruise. It was startling, seeing Henrietta look so weak, when she was usually strutting on the top of the world, being the dictator she is. I was worried.

"What's wrong?"

She sighed listfully, wrapping long fingers around my cup of coffee, knowing well not to bother the waitress at such an hour. I didn't argue as she sipped it, eyes downcast, watching the reflection in the dark contents. She isn't chunky like she use to be in elementary, she's relatively thin, but not anorexic, and has a beautiful body. I don't understand why she dresses and acts like a slut, because I've seen her in normal clothing, with her hair naturally copper, and she's gorgeous. She doesn't think so though.

"Everything, it's rather amusing, the despair one can feel," she finally answered after a long silence, the overhead light flickering like the stars.

"Henrietta, please explain."

She looked up, smiling softly, and took my hands in her freezing ones. Her long, peeling black nails brushed gently along the underside of my hand, to my wrist, sliding across the forearm and tattered skin. She flipped my arms over and pushed my sleeves up, exposing the glossy skin from razor cuts, the vertical lines along the veins, the star she herself had sliced in at the base of my palm, and the recently added pointy text of "RED" carved into my arm with a small angel's wing after the "D". Her smile never faltered as I looked away, embarrassed by the markings shown shamefully to the world.

"You know best, Markus, what it's like to be denied what you so desperately want. I don't think I need to explain."

She left quicker then she had come, kissing my cheek goodnight as she sauntered back into the howling winds. But her words rang true at the time, and still do. Even f I walked onto campus in jeans, and a polo with my hair dyed back to its natural ruddy brown, unstraightened and curly, I still wouldn't be welcomed among them. With _her_.

I never really noticed her before, well I _did_, Hell she's in most of my classes, but I never really looked at her _that way_. She's always been relatively quiet, but glows when she's got the floor, and she's so charming, hardly like those two girls she hangs out with, Bebe and Wendy. Unlike them, she likes solitude and being a wallflower, and strays far from athletics, although I recall in seventh grade she went out for volleyball. But she makes a difference on campus all the same, in drama, the orchestra, French club, NHS, the debate team, and a tolerance club. She's the backbone of our graduating class, but is hardly recognized.

I remember when I fell hard for her. It was chemistry class, our teacher paired us up hoping Bertha could reduce any sort of suicidal tendencies I might administer. She automatically pulled her hair up messily, not caring what it looked like, and put on the godawful goggles without hesitation. She hardly seemed bothered as she went about the procedures, asking only that I read them out loud as she did the lab. It was when she struck the match that I was attracted, and when another group set off the fire sprinklers by lighting a notebook on fire I was in love. While the other girls screamed about their hair, makeup, and outfits being ruined she just turned her face to the water, looking absolutely at peace in the chaos for a split second before she scrambled to salvage the chemistry book.

From then on we started to talk, not full conversations, just simple "Hey, how's it going?" in the halls or before class. With the tumbling, sick, nauseated feeling I get around her, I doubt I'd be able to hold a conversation anyway without yarfing. Tuesdays and Thursdays she sits outside on "our" side of the school with her other friends, Anne Polk, Rebecca Cotswold, and Jenny Millie during lunch. I'm always tempted to walk up to her and just talk, but I know better with her friends there and my own friends watching. So I always stay seated against the wall, puffing on the cancer-stick I've become addicted to over the years.

It really does hurt, knowing what you want but can't have. I've tried to alter myself in many ways, but physical means never really help in such matters. So I took up eating pills and LSD, prolonging reality as much as possible on trips and unconsciousness created by overdosing. But nothing ever really got rid of the hollow, stabbing feeling as she passed me in the hall on the arm of her boyfriend, Craig. It was a horrible feeling that brought tears to my eyes each night as I tried to fall asleep, thinking about Bertha and how much she radiated around Craig. But I smiled anyway as she passed, somehow content knowing at least she was happy.

Still, I had one outclause, one in which I was too afraid to go through with alone. So I asked the one person I knew that was crazy enough to assist me, and he did without further questions. It's funny how popular Stan is, and yet he _gets off_ to euthanizing other people.

The night it was to happen I gave him three things; a letter to Bertha, one to Henrietta, and my journal. He left the last with me as I lay down for sleep, Nightshade running through my veins, pumping into my heart. Before sunrise I'd answered the Ultimate Question.

_Where do you go when you die_?

To the memory of those that loved you, but _never_ to the one _you_ loved.


End file.
